Bygones Three hours and forty-one minutes, that's how long I have left until I find out who my soulmate is. Every person is born with a counter, an internally bounded piece of technology that displays a countdown to how close you are to your one true match. It just so happens that I'll find mine in less than 221 minutes. It’s like a hallmark piece of garbage that people use as the inspiration for their Instagram photos and depressing poetry about never finding that special somebody. Nobody really believes in it, but we all check it daily, almost routinely. Wake up; check your counter and do the same right before going to bed. Everyone wants to see if they’ll find that one person who’ll complete them.
I wake up to the sound of the train scraping down the old subway terminal, packed with people trying to get to work. I must've fallen asleep a little while after I got on the train because I'm almost halfway to my destination. Through the clattering of the rail tracks and the constant chatter, I don't notice the people sitting next to me until now. To my left is a man in a dress shirt cradling his cell phone as if it were his child; it's something I see too much of in 2050, especially in New York. To my right is a girl with dark hair, but I can’t figure out what she looks like through the thick brown waves. The train stops at the Brooklyn underpass station and half the people get off, including the dark-haired mystery girl. It's only until right after the doors close, I realize that she’s left her phone on the train right next to me. Nothing I can do about that now I guess, I place the phone in my bag and lean back in the hard leather seat. Out of pure boredom, I check my counter: negative five minutes. I've just met my soul mate, and she’s probably gotten off the train.
My heart freezes and my mind is blank. Stop the train? Yell for her? I contain myself and take a breath. There's no point in breaking the law. What do I even look for? I curse myself with colourful obscenities. I had missed the chance to meet my true soulmate. No way it's accurate, but some think it might provide some guidance. There are stories of people who find their soulmates without even looking at the counter, and some have persistently waited for the counter to tell them who they should love until the day that they ultimately die alone. I don’t want that to happen to me. I mean, would anyone?
About five minutes later, the train pulls into its final stop and I get off along with the rest of the commuters. I slide the train identification pass through the bars at the top of the staircase in the subway tunnels. Ethan Wolfe - 21 years old. Occupation: photographer. That’s the only job I could get anyway, since I was so into photography when I was young. I've never been one for studying at all, it's all garbage anyways.
Before I report to my office, I have to give that phone to the subway’s lost and found. The phone addict saw me pocket it and was judging me. I start to walk over when a thought crosses my mind. "Who says I have to do this?" I realized aloud. The phone-addicted businessman clears his throat and glares at me. I walk over to him.
"Hey, I'm... James. What's your name?" I say to him in a burst of self-confidence.
"...Smith. Erm.. John Smith."
"Well, Mr. John Smith," I say, slipping him a fifty, "You didn't see me take anything, did you?"
He nods silently. I look around, praying that no one else witnessed this exchange. I clasp the mystery girl's phone in my hands as if it were made of gold, and head to my office building. As I wait for the elevator, fluttery fantasies flood my mind. Mystery Girl might be a supermodel, or she might be as pretty as Sarah Connor - the female protagonist of Terminator Genisys for everyone who isn't an old movie aficionado. Mystery Girl and I might very well have a huge high-rise apartment in downtown! The elevator arrives just as I'm dreaming about our children. I walk into the giant glass box that hovers with the help of no wires or strings, something that isn't out of the ordinary anymore. Riding it gives me the distinct feeling that I'm time-travelling. I have no idea why but it still doesn't distract me from my interesting morning, I'm glad I didn't skip breakfast.
When I get to the office the first thing I do is sit myself down in front of my computer. I enter the Tor database to try and pinpoint if Mystery Girl's actually my soul mate. Most people's final resort: using the deep web to see if they've actually met their future spouse. But most of the time, they end up in the dark net, i.e. the fiery depths of Internet Hell. There have been countless stories of people stumbling into the dark net and accidentally calling hits on people or somehow finding deep secrets about their friends that drove them insane.
Logging into my personal Tor account, I scroll down to the "View Cerebral Camera Footage" option. Cerebral Cameras are a hot topic in 2050, introduced about a year ago. Upon access of my CC footage, I can see what I'm currently seeing through my eyes - my computer screen. I rewind it to the subway commute. When I see Mystery Girl, I stop and examine her features. I can't see make out much of her face, but if she truly is my soulmate, I think we'd complement each other. I can see traces of her angular jawline and full lips. We'd make a cute couple.
I zoom into her head and turn on Tor's facial recognition software. Tapping my fingers on the desk, I wait for the program to search its database of over fourteen billion people. The chime signalling completion comes a second later:
Eight thousand, nine hundred, seventy-two results found.
Thanks for the advice CSI Miami. Enlarge and enhance... I click through various Tor links, forming a complex web of data that's totally untraceable. I stumble upon a page called "Unl0ck_M3". I plug in Mystery Girl's mobile phone, and after a few minutes of strange, definitely illegal code running across my screen, her phone clicks open. I throw up a higher quality picture from her phone into face recognition:
One hit.
On the edge of my seat, I click on the single name that Mystery Girl's face brought up.
My computer shuts off. I get up and shake the monitor, hoping that it's just connection problems. Everyone in the office is looking at me, but I don't care. I think nothing of it, until computer next to me shuts down too. Then the next, and the next, and before I know it, the entire building's electricity is out with a dull hum. I quickly pack up my belongings, slip Mystery Girl's phone in my breast pocket and hurry out of the office. The last image of my "previous life": fluorescent emergency tubes of light, godforsaken grey cubicles, and my boss calling 911.
I start to make a run for it. People try to grab hold of me but they’re not quick enough. In the rush I realize that I've just knocked an old lady down, I want to help her. I should help her. But I have to keep running. I look up and see an exit sign. I fling the door open and start jumping down the stairs. As I reach the ground floor and I dash into the middle of the street. I run to the most crowded are: the station. I press my hands deep in my pockets, pull up my hood and keep my head down. Surveying the area, I notice a crowd gathering around a cashier for the newest smartphone. In the bustle, it’s easy to quickly swipe someone’s keycard. I don’t think the hospital will miss Dr. Wilson if he’s a little late. I enter platform one and hop onto the tracks, deep into the tunnels. Before I know it I hear cops after me. Bright, penetrating flashlight beams are shining around, and echos of my name pierce the silence. No one notices me sneaking into a maintenance room, at least I don't think so. I take out Mystery Girl's phone and hope to learn anything at all about her, even just her name.
But there's nothing - not a single piece of information on this stupid phone! The battery is almost dead and now I need to find a place to charge it. My apartment? No, they're expecting me there and I can't even find a way out of this train station without getting arrested. Maybe I should disguise myself so no one can recognize me.
I step into a puddle of water that leaked from an exhaust pipe in the roof and concentrate more on my reflection. Light blond hair and purple eyes, distinctive identifiers of my person. Out of nowhere, a drop of oil falls from the ceiling out of another pipe. Suddenly, an idea starts to form in my mind. I look around for something to stand on and see an old box. Standing on the box, I start to scrape off as much of the black fluid onto my hands and clothes. Thank God no one is here to see me. After making sure that I've got my hair completely covered with the foul grease, I make a quick dash for the exit on the other side of the tunnel. Voices echo from outside the entrance.
"Are you certain that you saw him heading towards the tunnels?"
"Affirmative. He was last seen six minutes ago running in this direction through the Southeast mainline."
I panic and my throat starts to close up so I can't breathe. Beads of sweat drip down my forehead, like rain on a windowpane. I grip my chest to stop my heart from pounding out of my body. Calm down, I tell myself. It's dark in here, so they probably won’t notice you. I quietly edge myself into a crack in the wall and crouch down, hoping for the best. Footsteps approach closer and closer – the ticking time-bomb ready to explode. The two men are now a few meters away, close enough that I can study their faces. I recognize one of the men as the "John Smith," guy because honestly, who's named John Smith? He must've tipped the police when I bribed him in the subway tunnels. Their flashlights beam around the corner, scanning for any signs of me. Either they don't pay close enough attention, or they simply don't see me, but the next few words cause me to breathe out a sigh of relief.
"No trace of him, sir."
"Then let's move."
I hear the footsteps echoing further away. Cold, slimy water is dripping from the ceiling and into my hair, making me wince and shiver. Carefully, I walk to the opening of the tunnel. I'm in no hurry to leave, as I know that this tunnel is the only safe haven for me now. Once again, I decide to check Mystery Girl's phone. Maybe this time I can finally get some info on her. My reflection surprises me: My hair is now jet black and my face is covered in soot. Well, at least now I have a disguise. I unlock her phone, remembering that the battery is almost out. This may be my last chance before the phone really does die, so I'll have to make this quick. I browse her photo gallery, but there seems to be nothing worth seeing. But just as I'm about to close her phone, I catch a glimpse of one of her most recent photos. In the blurry shot, she seems to be smiling, and there's another person holding her hand in the background. I take a closer look at the man she has her hands intertwined with. He has blonde hair, violet eyes, and looks quite tall... wait, what? I rub my eyes and stare more closely into the screen. No way... that isn't even possible. This is all a dream, Ethan. This can't be real. I turn off the phone and save the complicated decision-making for later. Right now, I have to recharge the phone without getting caught.
I escape from the subway tunnels back into the city. As I take a step outside of the tunnel, everyone's eyes are fixated on me as if I am some sort of caveman who had travel for a thousand years. They’ll probably rationalize it as some new fashion statement. Feeling calm once again, I lightly jog to the library only to find it locked. I turn left and sneak over to the back of a line of brownstones. Scaling the side ladders on the building, I break one of the windows with a rock and head inside. Is this breaking and entering? Yes. But I have to charge the phone and use the Tor database to determine who in the world this girl is. It's for love. The phone's beam of light temporarily blinds me. My heart pounds while waiting for the Tor database to load. Once I’m logged on, I look at Mystery Girl's picture and try to figure out a connection of how I can be in a picture with someone I just found out that she might be my soul mate. How's it possible? My vision must be going. It’s just too much to take in after everything that’s happened.
RILEY KATHERINE WOLFE AGE 26 PARENTS: ETHAN JAMES WOLFE & MOIRA ROSE CARLTON STATUS: DECEASED
Mystery Girl is . . . my daughter? I don't have a daughter... Even if I do, how can she be five years older than me? And who is this Moira Rose Carlton anyway? Besides, this mysterious girl is ... dead? Then who was on the subway today?
The more I think about it, the crazier it seems. Suddenly, a twitch of pain shoots through my heart and races up my spine, sending a sharp electric jolt to the back of my head. It's so intense I can't breathe. I double over and fall off my chair. My pulse is racing. I grab at my wildly beating heart and wince at the ache in my head. My senses are so burned out that I don't notice the suited man behind me. He brings down the barrel of his gun to my temple as my vision blurs, I fall to the ground and pass out.
I wake up in a cold dark room. It smells like home, but I can't tell -can't see a thing. I’m insanely dizzy, my senses are off. I've got a killer headache. I gingerly feel my head for any injury. And I remember... someone in a suit - a government official maybe - hit me. My mind starts racing and questions bounce off the walls of my brain.
Maybe I’ve caught the attention of black market operatives on the deep net, and now I'm the target of an illegal organ harvesting operation. It's plausible, considering the fact that everyone's personal bodily statistics are stored in supposedly secure government databases. Does this have something to do with Riley Wolfe? Okay, seriously, if she really is my bona fide biological daughter, the fact that I thought of her as a love interest is disturbing. What am I doing? Instead of thinking about my own safety, I'm thinking about my maybe-daughter Riley! Suddenly, in the midst of all my thoughts, the door cracks open as a strong beam of light penetrates the room. Squinting, I make out two dark silhouettes standing in the threshold of the door.
"Sir, it is him, this can't be wrong; it's Ethan James Wolfe, alright."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. I checked his identity. His DNA matched our data perfectly."
"Don't joke around with me! He's a dim-witted brat, that's what he is! The consequences of your mistake could be fatal, for both you and this organization!"
"Sir, I am fully aware of that.”
"Alright, we will attempt it upon your recommendation. But make no mistake or I will make your life miserable should this be a mere moronic error."
"Understood, sir."
A few screams and the dull muffled noise of an explosion echo through the hallway as the smell of dust and asphalt pick up in the room.
"What the hell happened?"
"I don't know. Let me connect to Intel..."
"And...?"
"An unsub just broke into HQ!"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, and by the looks of it, she's armed to the teeth."
"A lone lunatic just broke into HQ? How is that possible? We have a state-of-the-art facility, no one could ever-"
“It’s her!”
Two laser beams penetrate the wall and fly straight into the hearts of the two special operatives. They collapse without so much as a whimper, blood already beginning to pool at their feet. After a long moment of traumatized silence and mental debate, I cautiously feel my way out of the room. I step lightly, picking my way over dead men with their hearts blown out by the same sort of weapon. I hear a rifle cock and feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of my head. Here I am, with a gun pointed at my skull again. Twice in a day, that’s a record. My assailant and I walk in stony silence, through a dim hallway, our feet splashing in water leaking from ceiling pipes. We clamber through an exhaust shaft and eventually make it out onto the roof of HQ. The person forces me into the parked helicopter. The door is closed behind us and the helicopter automatically sets off.
Am I still on Earth? The buildings are flooded by sea water, and it seems like no one has been living in the high-rises for centuries. Giant, grey clouds and immeasurable smog darken the atmosphere and only small aircrafts are visible in the sky. It’s seems like some kind of half-submerged industrial archipelago. I hesitantly take out my phone and snap some pictures at the scene. After all, it is my job right? "Welcome to 2080's New York." The woman with the gun says. I turn my head and look at her strangely, only to find myself staring into the eyes of my daughter. My eyes start to blur a little and my mind gets cloudy, "what is happening?"
The woman with the gun - somehow my daughter - splashes water onto my face. The recent developments baffle me. Why is it 2080? Who kidnapped me in the first place? Trying to get up from the awkward position, I hear a slight squeaking. I'm wearing a heavy orange bullet proof suit swallows me whole. We’ve landed now in what seems like a junkyard... or a park. Here, it’s hard to tell the difference. This doesn’t even seem like real life: everything has changed so much, it's so abnormal. I sit up, wincing as pain shoots through my temples.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Riley… Your daughter?” She answers.
I groan. “I know... at least I think I know." Letting out a deep sigh I mumble, "I was hoping you’d say something else, considering that you’re supposed to be my soulmate.”
“Soulmate? Gross!” She gags. “Dad, your soulmate was the other girl.”
“What other girl?”
“My mom. The woman you were supposed to meet on that freaking train and now I'm one space-time paradox away from not existing. Now, drink.” She shoves a bottle of water in my hands. Ignoring the bottle, I ask “Who were those people?”
“A secret government agency that I get in huge trouble with in the future. Well, your future.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“It's rather complicated. Anyways, they want to get rid of you to eliminate any chance of my existence.”
“It’s that bad? Well now I have to know what you did.”
“No way. Never tell anyone everything you've done"
Deciding to end the conversation there, I continued taking in my surroundings. It looks like Back to the Future’s prediction of 2015, but grimier and more dystopian. The streets are flooded with garbage-scented liquid but look like a murky mix of purple, gray, and red. Many skyscraper tops are completely shrouded by pollution. New York is still as busy as always, but everyone looks like they were dragged out of bed and haven't slept for years. Maybe they haven't, who knows? The more I walk the more pollution I inhale. It gets worse and worse until a coughing fit stops me from wandering around. I stop wandering and pull over a plastic chair. This faux New York seems to have a thing for plastic; Riley’s sitting on a red plastic stool too. Riley’s still making no sense. Who is Riley talking about? And what do I do in my future? If I still have one... I start to rub my head in the hopes of remembering anything, or anyone.
"My dear old man, you appear confused... I'll explain. Twenty-five years ago, you married my mother and had me. The government has developed a way to time travel. Any questions?"
“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “You still haven’t told me why I’m here! How the hell did New York get any worse than it was before?” I ask.
“We are currently in an alternative future in which you and my mother never met.” Riley says, quite matter-of-factly.
Feeling the blood rushing to my head for the third time in less than a day, I do my best to not faint
“So wait, by meeting that girl on the train and having you, I prevented this from happening?”
“That’s right. By taking you out of 2050 New York and into the future before you could track down my mother with the phone you found, they have temporarily prevented you two from meeting, thus creating the New York we see now. In order to change what they have done, I had to break you out of that building. Now, the solution is pretty simple. I have to take you back to 2050 New York and set you up with my mom.”
“Wait, who is 'they', and why did they bring me here? I know it sounds idiotic, but why didn't they just deal with me back in 2050?”
“There’s a group that took over the government on the east coast, which is now an independent country.” Riley explains. “They orchestrated a stock market crash and a military coup in 2050's New York in order to rise to power, but obviously it didn't work out because of the little bundle of joy that is me."
“Wait, so how in the world are we to time travel? I doubt you’re a rocket scientist.” I ask. I'm doubtful of my daughter's abilities, because, well, mine aren't the greatest.
“Well, the current government’s able to travel back in time, and in order for us mere mortals to do that we have to forcibly ask for their time machine."
"You stole from a government agency?"
"Suck it up, Dad. I prefer the term, 'creatively acquire'."
"Are you aware of the fact that I'll be detained by police once we get back to 2050?"
"Don’t worry, the resistance back in 2050 have already taken care of your police problem. All that’s left is for us to go back to the past and meet Mom.”
“Does that mean we’ll be going back to that building?”
“That's right, good job. It’s time for you to finally meet my mom.”
A familiar jingle rings through the air. Hang on, that’s my phone. My phone is ringing. Which wouldn’t be strange or weird if I wasn’t fifty years in the future. Riley takes out a phone identical to mine. "Call unknown. Huh that's weird," she says. Reading my next thought she says, “I’m your daughter and in the future you give me your phone. I clearly got my brains from my mother’s side… Are you going to pick up?” I quickly do so as if she were my father. Out of habit, I start to walk away as I speak. I barely notice Riley pressing something on her – my phone.
“Hello, is this Mister Ethan Wolfe?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“You are currently with Miss Riley K. Wolfe am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to say anything, just listen. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your daughter causes… unspeakable horrors to occur. Nothing really her fault, but… she’s what we refer to as a linchpin. The first domino in a long string of worldwide catastrophes if you will.”
I detect something in his voice, something strange, something that doesn’t belong in the voice of a government official: sheer, utterly raw terror. It’s uncomfortable.
“How can one girl cause anything like that?” I ask under my breath.
“It’s too complicated for us to go into detail right now but… can you do something? Please. We were trying to stop her existence by interfering with your past, but we can’t do that. And there are other agencies trying to force her creation as well. Please.”
I stare back at Riley, who is still sitting down and then turn back around to look at the dark side of a tall skyscraper.
“Look around, you see this world. This dystopia, this shell of what New York used to be?” he continues to be worried.
“Yeah, apparently this is an alternate timeline in which my daughter doesn’t exist.”
“Hah,” the emptiest scoff in existence, "Is that was Riley thought? This is the world in which she does, Ethan. And you can change all of that.”
The line goes flat.
“Who was that?” Riley calls over.
“Just something from work I guess. AT&T is even stronger than I expected.”
“Okay… well as strange as your inter-dimensional phone call was, it’s time to send you back.”
She straps a strange technological band around my arm and hands me a futuristic blue gun.
“Don’t worry, completely painless. Just in case.”
Her voice is somber; she’s hiding something but I don’t have the time to figure out what. I slide the gun into my pocket.
“Hang on, you’re not going with me?” I asked, worried.
“Can’t. I don’t belong in your time period. Now, they’ve busted out their scanners and I’ll light up like a Christmas tree.”
I chuckle nervously.
“Don’t worry, all you have to do is look out for a lost redhead on the train. Then flash your winning smile, wow her with your intellect, have a crazy night and bam: I exist.”
She pats me with a heavy arm.
“I’m glad I got to see you like this… dad. Before I… never mind. Time to go.”
And before I can react, she presses a big red button on my arm band.
I wake up on a creaky subway. I check my reflection in the windows. I don't look like a scraggly beggar but the dignified person I normally am. To the right, I no longer see Riley but an elderly woman sleeping on the seat. I look left to see Mr. John Smith the Liar and his clenched phone. I notice his violet eyes and blonde hair that was clearly dyed black. He looks really familiar but I just can't place my finger on it. I stare closer at his phone and I see a text he's writing with one hand: "I'm so, so sorry. I tried, but I couldn't do it. This has to happen." He presses send. I'm so focused on him and his familiar appearance that I don't catch a redhead bumping into me. She’s checking a map and is clearly lost.
“Hi, do you need some help?” I ask.
“Uh yeah, do you know where Propsect Avenue is?”
“It’s, well, actually right here.”
We arrive at Prospect Avenue station and get off together.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You’re not from here are you?”
“I’m visiting from Boston,” she replies.
“Would you like me to show you around the city? I’m Ethan,” extending my arm out to shake hers.
She’s incredulous. “Oh I see. You come over; help the lost damsel in distress find her destination, then you take me out for a few drinks, and get it on with me in your apartment later right? Yeah, nice pickup, but no.”
I try to save myself, “No honestly, I just wanted to show you around. You seem like an interesting person.” I hide my bracelet behind my leg.
“…Huh, okay.” She replies, sizing me up but giving me a seal of approval.
I take her to her hotel and we visit all the tourist locations. And we talk. We talk like there’s no tomorrow, and she’s everything I expected. Moira is smart, witty, philosophical, definitely easy on the eyes. We find an instant connection. They weren’t lying when they said soulmates. Our conversations somehow drift to work and after a few drinks she says, “It’s top secret. You can’t tell anyone.” I mime zipping shut my lips. “I work at MIT, and we’ve been doing research on time travel. We think it’s possible to alter events that happened in the past. It’s all theoretical right now, but one day maybe…”
I’m suddenly reminded by why I’m here. By the gun in my pocket. The phone call I receive. I nod, contemplatively. We continue to converse freely but I feel hollow – no, gutted. We talk about politics, and life, and nature, and our deepest fears. She’s unbelievably perfect. We reach Times Square, with thousands of people bustling around us. Where she won't be lost. We’re talking about children, and how annoying they are. How ironic. I slide out my gun and pull her into an embrace.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper.
I press the barrel up against her chest, my hand trembling. I pull the trigger. Hey eyes are frozen in shock as she falls onto my shoulder. I hear gasps and screams from people around me. I merely see blobs through my tear-strucken eyes. I continue to whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I hear cops yelling out commands. Guns cocking. I just hold her. “I’m so, so sorry.” Everything is spinning. The screaming gets louder and louder and everything becomes an inanely high-pitched blur.
I press the button on my arm. I can almost feel myself lurching forward in time.
I’m no longer in Times Square. I’m in a park. A clean one. In a slightly brighter New York. Not the one I’m used to, there's quite a few more skyscrapers everywhere, but it’s New York for sure. I see black suited men driving up in black cars approaching me. Why do spies always have to be in all black? A few of them are nodding, some of them are applauding. I have to go back though. This solution is just temporary. I stumble to my feet and seat myself down. What a strange sight in New York. A 21-year-old man approached by secret service agents silently crying and nodding in a bright, red, plastic stool.
Three hours and forty-one minutes, that's how long I have left until I find out who my soulmate is. Every person is born with a counter, an internally bounded piece of technology that displays a countdown to how close you are to your one true match. It just so happens that I'll find mine in less than 221 minutes. It’s like a hallmark piece of garbage that people use as the inspiration for their Instagram photos and depressing poetry about never finding that special somebody. Nobody really believes in it, but we all check it daily, almost routinely. Wake up; check your counter and do the same right before going to bed. Everyone wants to see if they’ll find that one person who’ll complete them.
I wake up to the sound of the train scraping down the old subway terminal, packed with people trying to get to work. I must've fallen asleep a little while after I got on the train because I'm almost halfway to my destination. Through the clattering of the rail tracks and the constant chatter, I don't notice the people sitting next to me until now. To my left is a man in a dress shirt cradling his cell phone as if it were his child; it's something I see too much of in 2050, especially in New York. To my right is a girl with dark hair, but I can’t figure out what she looks like through the thick brown waves. The train stops at the Brooklyn underpass station and half the people get off, including the dark-haired mystery girl. It's only until right after the doors close, I realize that she’s left her phone on the train right next to me. Nothing I can do about that now I guess, I place the phone in my bag and lean back in the hard leather seat. Out of pure boredom, I check my counter: negative five minutes. I've just met my soul mate, and she’s probably gotten off the train.
My heart freezes and my mind is blank. Stop the train? Yell for her? I contain myself and take a breath. There's no point in breaking the law. What do I even look for? I curse myself with colourful obscenities. I had missed the chance to meet my true soulmate. No way it's accurate, but some think it might provide some guidance. There are stories of people who find their soulmates without even looking at the counter, and some have persistently waited for the counter to tell them who they should love until the day that they ultimately die alone. I don’t want that to happen to me. I mean, would anyone?
About five minutes later, the train pulls into its final stop and I get off along with the rest of the commuters. I slide the train identification pass through the bars at the top of the staircase in the subway tunnels. Ethan Wolfe - 21 years old. Occupation: photographer. That’s the only job I could get anyway, since I was so into photography when I was young. I've never been one for studying at all, it's all garbage anyways.
Before I report to my office, I have to give that phone to the subway’s lost and found. The phone addict saw me pocket it and was judging me. I start to walk over when a thought crosses my mind. "Who says I have to do this?" I realized aloud. The phone-addicted businessman clears his throat and glares at me. I walk over to him.
"Hey, I'm... James. What's your name?" I say to him in a burst of self-confidence.
"...Smith. Erm.. John Smith."
"Well, Mr. John Smith," I say, slipping him a fifty, "You didn't see me take anything, did you?"
He nods silently. I look around, praying that no one else witnessed this exchange. I clasp the mystery girl's phone in my hands as if it were made of gold, and head to my office building. As I wait for the elevator, fluttery fantasies flood my mind. Mystery Girl might be a supermodel, or she might be as pretty as Sarah Connor - the female protagonist of Terminator Genisys for everyone who isn't an old movie aficionado. Mystery Girl and I might very well have a huge high-rise apartment in downtown! The elevator arrives just as I'm dreaming about our children. I walk into the giant glass box that hovers with the help of no wires or strings, something that isn't out of the ordinary anymore. Riding it gives me the distinct feeling that I'm time-travelling. I have no idea why but it still doesn't distract me from my interesting morning, I'm glad I didn't skip breakfast.
When I get to the office the first thing I do is sit myself down in front of my computer. I enter the Tor database to try and pinpoint if Mystery Girl's actually my soul mate. Most people's final resort: using the deep web to see if they've actually met their future spouse. But most of the time, they end up in the dark net, i.e. the fiery depths of Internet Hell. There have been countless stories of people stumbling into the dark net and accidentally calling hits on people or somehow finding deep secrets about their friends that drove them insane.
Logging into my personal Tor account, I scroll down to the "View Cerebral Camera Footage" option. Cerebral Cameras are a hot topic in 2050, introduced about a year ago. Upon access of my CC footage, I can see what I'm currently seeing through my eyes - my computer screen. I rewind it to the subway commute. When I see Mystery Girl, I stop and examine her features. I can't see make out much of her face, but if she truly is my soulmate, I think we'd complement each other. I can see traces of her angular jawline and full lips. We'd make a cute couple.
I zoom into her head and turn on Tor's facial recognition software. Tapping my fingers on the desk, I wait for the program to search its database of over fourteen billion people. The chime signalling completion comes a second later:
Eight thousand, nine hundred, seventy-two results found.
Thanks for the advice CSI Miami. Enlarge and enhance... I click through various Tor links, forming a complex web of data that's totally untraceable. I stumble upon a page called "Unl0ck_M3". I plug in Mystery Girl's mobile phone, and after a few minutes of strange, definitely illegal code running across my screen, her phone clicks open. I throw up a higher quality picture from her phone into face recognition:
One hit.
On the edge of my seat, I click on the single name that Mystery Girl's face brought up.
My computer shuts off. I get up and shake the monitor, hoping that it's just connection problems. Everyone in the office is looking at me, but I don't care. I think nothing of it, until computer next to me shuts down too. Then the next, and the next, and before I know it, the entire building's electricity is out with a dull hum. I quickly pack up my belongings, slip Mystery Girl's phone in my breast pocket and hurry out of the office. The last image of my "previous life": fluorescent emergency tubes of light, godforsaken grey cubicles, and my boss calling 911.
I start to make a run for it. People try to grab hold of me but they’re not quick enough. In the rush I realize that I've just knocked an old lady down, I want to help her. I should help her. But I have to keep running. I look up and see an exit sign. I fling the door open and start jumping down the stairs. As I reach the ground floor and I dash into the middle of the street. I run to the most crowded are: the station. I press my hands deep in my pockets, pull up my hood and keep my head down. Surveying the area, I notice a crowd gathering around a cashier for the newest smartphone. In the bustle, it’s easy to quickly swipe someone’s keycard. I don’t think the hospital will miss Dr. Wilson if he’s a little late. I enter platform one and hop onto the tracks, deep into the tunnels. Before I know it I hear cops after me. Bright, penetrating flashlight beams are shining around, and echos of my name pierce the silence. No one notices me sneaking into a maintenance room, at least I don't think so. I take out Mystery Girl's phone and hope to learn anything at all about her, even just her name.
But there's nothing - not a single piece of information on this stupid phone! The battery is almost dead and now I need to find a place to charge it. My apartment? No, they're expecting me there and I can't even find a way out of this train station without getting arrested. Maybe I should disguise myself so no one can recognize me.
I step into a puddle of water that leaked from an exhaust pipe in the roof and concentrate more on my reflection. Light blond hair and purple eyes, distinctive identifiers of my person. Out of nowhere, a drop of oil falls from the ceiling out of another pipe. Suddenly, an idea starts to form in my mind. I look around for something to stand on and see an old box. Standing on the box, I start to scrape off as much of the black fluid onto my hands and clothes. Thank God no one is here to see me. After making sure that I've got my hair completely covered with the foul grease, I make a quick dash for the exit on the other side of the tunnel. Voices echo from outside the entrance.
"Are you certain that you saw him heading towards the tunnels?"
"Affirmative. He was last seen six minutes ago running in this direction through the Southeast mainline."
I panic and my throat starts to close up so I can't breathe. Beads of sweat drip down my forehead, like rain on a windowpane. I grip my chest to stop my heart from pounding out of my body. Calm down, I tell myself. It's dark in here, so they probably won’t notice you. I quietly edge myself into a crack in the wall and crouch down, hoping for the best. Footsteps approach closer and closer – the ticking time-bomb ready to explode. The two men are now a few meters away, close enough that I can study their faces. I recognize one of the men as the "John Smith," guy because honestly, who's named John Smith? He must've tipped the police when I bribed him in the subway tunnels. Their flashlights beam around the corner, scanning for any signs of me. Either they don't pay close enough attention, or they simply don't see me, but the next few words cause me to breathe out a sigh of relief.
"No trace of him, sir."
"Then let's move."
I hear the footsteps echoing further away. Cold, slimy water is dripping from the ceiling and into my hair, making me wince and shiver. Carefully, I walk to the opening of the tunnel. I'm in no hurry to leave, as I know that this tunnel is the only safe haven for me now. Once again, I decide to check Mystery Girl's phone. Maybe this time I can finally get some info on her. My reflection surprises me: My hair is now jet black and my face is covered in soot. Well, at least now I have a disguise. I unlock her phone, remembering that the battery is almost out. This may be my last chance before the phone really does die, so I'll have to make this quick. I browse her photo gallery, but there seems to be nothing worth seeing. But just as I'm about to close her phone, I catch a glimpse of one of her most recent photos. In the blurry shot, she seems to be smiling, and there's another person holding her hand in the background. I take a closer look at the man she has her hands intertwined with. He has blonde hair, violet eyes, and looks quite tall... wait, what? I rub my eyes and stare more closely into the screen. No way... that isn't even possible. This is all a dream, Ethan. This can't be real. I turn off the phone and save the complicated decision-making for later. Right now, I have to recharge the phone without getting caught.
I escape from the subway tunnels back into the city. As I take a step outside of the tunnel, everyone's eyes are fixated on me as if I am some sort of caveman who had travel for a thousand years. They’ll probably rationalize it as some new fashion statement. Feeling calm once again, I lightly jog to the library only to find it locked. I turn left and sneak over to the back of a line of brownstones. Scaling the side ladders on the building, I break one of the windows with a rock and head inside. Is this breaking and entering? Yes. But I have to charge the phone and use the Tor database to determine who in the world this girl is. It's for love.
The phone's beam of light temporarily blinds me. My heart pounds while waiting for the Tor database to load. Once I’m logged on, I look at Mystery Girl's picture and try to figure out a connection of how I can be in a picture with someone I just found out that she might be my soul mate. How's it possible? My vision must be going. It’s just too much to take in after everything that’s happened.
RILEY KATHERINE WOLFE
AGE 26
PARENTS: ETHAN JAMES WOLFE & MOIRA ROSE CARLTON
STATUS: DECEASED
Mystery Girl is . . . my daughter? I don't have a daughter... Even if I do, how can she be five years older than me? And who is this Moira Rose Carlton anyway? Besides, this mysterious girl is ... dead? Then who was on the subway today?
The more I think about it, the crazier it seems. Suddenly, a twitch of pain shoots through my heart and races up my spine, sending a sharp electric jolt to the back of my head. It's so intense I can't breathe. I double over and fall off my chair. My pulse is racing. I grab at my wildly beating heart and wince at the ache in my head. My senses are so burned out that I don't notice the suited man behind me. He brings down the barrel of his gun to my temple as my vision blurs, I fall to the ground and pass out.
I wake up in a cold dark room. It smells like home, but I can't tell -can't see a thing. I’m insanely dizzy, my senses are off. I've got a killer headache. I gingerly feel my head for any injury. And I remember... someone in a suit - a government official maybe - hit me. My mind starts racing and questions bounce off the walls of my brain.
Maybe I’ve caught the attention of black market operatives on the deep net, and now I'm the target of an illegal organ harvesting operation. It's plausible, considering the fact that everyone's personal bodily statistics are stored in supposedly secure government databases. Does this have something to do with Riley Wolfe? Okay, seriously, if she really is my bona fide biological daughter, the fact that I thought of her as a love interest is disturbing. What am I doing? Instead of thinking about my own safety, I'm thinking about my maybe-daughter Riley! Suddenly, in the midst of all my thoughts, the door cracks open as a strong beam of light penetrates the room. Squinting, I make out two dark silhouettes standing in the threshold of the door.
"Sir, it is him, this can't be wrong; it's Ethan James Wolfe, alright."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. I checked his identity. His DNA matched our data perfectly."
"Don't joke around with me! He's a dim-witted brat, that's what he is! The consequences of your mistake could be fatal, for both you and this organization!"
"Sir, I am fully aware of that.”
"Alright, we will attempt it upon your recommendation. But make no mistake or I will make your life miserable should this be a mere moronic error."
"Understood, sir."
A few screams and the dull muffled noise of an explosion echo through the hallway as the smell of dust and asphalt pick up in the room.
"What the hell happened?"
"I don't know. Let me connect to Intel..."
"And...?"
"An unsub just broke into HQ!"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, and by the looks of it, she's armed to the teeth."
"A lone lunatic just broke into HQ? How is that possible? We have a state-of-the-art facility, no one could ever-"
“It’s her!”
Two laser beams penetrate the wall and fly straight into the hearts of the two special operatives. They collapse without so much as a whimper, blood already beginning to pool at their feet.
After a long moment of traumatized silence and mental debate, I cautiously feel my way out of the room. I step lightly, picking my way over dead men with their hearts blown out by the same sort of weapon. I hear a rifle cock and feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of my head. Here I am, with a gun pointed at my skull again. Twice in a day, that’s a record. My assailant and I walk in stony silence, through a dim hallway, our feet splashing in water leaking from ceiling pipes. We clamber through an exhaust shaft and eventually make it out onto the roof of HQ.
The person forces me into the parked helicopter. The door is closed behind us and the helicopter automatically sets off.
Am I still on Earth? The buildings are flooded by sea water, and it seems like no one has been living in the high-rises for centuries. Giant, grey clouds and immeasurable smog darken the atmosphere and only small aircrafts are visible in the sky. It’s seems like some kind of half-submerged industrial archipelago. I hesitantly take out my phone and snap some pictures at the scene. After all, it is my job right?
"Welcome to 2080's New York." The woman with the gun says. I turn my head and look at her strangely, only to find myself staring into the eyes of my daughter. My eyes start to blur a little and my mind gets cloudy, "what is happening?"
The woman with the gun - somehow my daughter - splashes water onto my face. The recent developments baffle me. Why is it 2080? Who kidnapped me in the first place? Trying to get up from the awkward position, I hear a slight squeaking. I'm wearing a heavy orange bullet proof suit swallows me whole. We’ve landed now in what seems like a junkyard... or a park. Here, it’s hard to tell the difference. This doesn’t even seem like real life: everything has changed so much, it's so abnormal. I sit up, wincing as pain shoots through my temples.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Riley… Your daughter?” She answers.
I groan. “I know... at least I think I know." Letting out a deep sigh I mumble, "I was hoping you’d say something else, considering that you’re supposed to be my soulmate.”
“Soulmate? Gross!” She gags. “Dad, your soulmate was the other girl.”
“What other girl?”
“My mom. The woman you were supposed to meet on that freaking train and now I'm one space-time paradox away from not existing. Now, drink.” She shoves a bottle of water in my hands. Ignoring the bottle, I ask “Who were those people?”
“A secret government agency that I get in huge trouble with in the future. Well, your future.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“It's rather complicated. Anyways, they want to get rid of you to eliminate any chance of my existence.”
“It’s that bad? Well now I have to know what you did.”
“No way. Never tell anyone everything you've done"
Deciding to end the conversation there, I continued taking in my surroundings. It looks like Back to the Future’s prediction of 2015, but grimier and more dystopian. The streets are flooded with garbage-scented liquid but look like a murky mix of purple, gray, and red. Many skyscraper tops are completely shrouded by pollution. New York is still as busy as always, but everyone looks like they were dragged out of bed and haven't slept for years. Maybe they haven't, who knows? The more I walk the more pollution I inhale. It gets worse and worse until a coughing fit stops me from wandering around. I stop wandering and pull over a plastic chair. This faux New York seems to have a thing for plastic; Riley’s sitting on a red plastic stool too. Riley’s still making no sense. Who is Riley talking about? And what do I do in my future? If I still have one... I start to rub my head in the hopes of remembering anything, or anyone.
"My dear old man, you appear confused... I'll explain. Twenty-five years ago, you married my mother and had me. The government has developed a way to time travel. Any questions?"
“Are you kidding?” I exclaim. “You still haven’t told me why I’m here! How the hell did New York get any worse than it was before?” I ask.
“We are currently in an alternative future in which you and my mother never met.” Riley says, quite matter-of-factly.
Feeling the blood rushing to my head for the third time in less than a day, I do my best to not faint
“So wait, by meeting that girl on the train and having you, I prevented this from happening?”
“That’s right. By taking you out of 2050 New York and into the future before you could track down my mother with the phone you found, they have temporarily prevented you two from meeting, thus creating the New York we see now. In order to change what they have done, I had to break you out of that building. Now, the solution is pretty simple. I have to take you back to 2050 New York and set you up with my mom.”
“Wait, who is 'they', and why did they bring me here? I know it sounds idiotic, but why didn't they just deal with me back in 2050?”
“There’s a group that took over the government on the east coast, which is now an independent country.” Riley explains. “They orchestrated a stock market crash and a military coup in 2050's New York in order to rise to power, but obviously it didn't work out because of the little bundle of joy that is me."
“Wait, so how in the world are we to time travel? I doubt you’re a rocket scientist.” I ask. I'm doubtful of my daughter's abilities, because, well, mine aren't the greatest.
“Well, the current government’s able to travel back in time, and in order for us mere mortals to do that we have to forcibly ask for their time machine."
"You stole from a government agency?"
"Suck it up, Dad. I prefer the term, 'creatively acquire'."
"Are you aware of the fact that I'll be detained by police once we get back to 2050?"
"Don’t worry, the resistance back in 2050 have already taken care of your police problem. All that’s left is for us to go back to the past and meet Mom.”
“Does that mean we’ll be going back to that building?”
“That's right, good job. It’s time for you to finally meet my mom.”
A familiar jingle rings through the air. Hang on, that’s my phone. My phone is ringing. Which wouldn’t be strange or weird if I wasn’t fifty years in the future. Riley takes out a phone identical to mine. "Call unknown. Huh that's weird," she says. Reading my next thought she says, “I’m your daughter and in the future you give me your phone. I clearly got my brains from my mother’s side… Are you going to pick up?” I quickly do so as if she were my father. Out of habit, I start to walk away as I speak. I barely notice Riley pressing something on her – my phone.
“Hello, is this Mister Ethan Wolfe?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“You are currently with Miss Riley K. Wolfe am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to say anything, just listen. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your daughter causes… unspeakable horrors to occur. Nothing really her fault, but… she’s what we refer to as a linchpin. The first domino in a long string of worldwide catastrophes if you will.”
I detect something in his voice, something strange, something that doesn’t belong in the voice of a government official: sheer, utterly raw terror. It’s uncomfortable.
“How can one girl cause anything like that?” I ask under my breath.
“It’s too complicated for us to go into detail right now but… can you do something? Please. We were trying to stop her existence by interfering with your past, but we can’t do that. And there are other agencies trying to force her creation as well. Please.”
I stare back at Riley, who is still sitting down and then turn back around to look at the dark side of a tall skyscraper.
“Look around, you see this world. This dystopia, this shell of what New York used to be?” he continues to be worried.
“Yeah, apparently this is an alternate timeline in which my daughter doesn’t exist.”
“Hah,” the emptiest scoff in existence, "Is that was Riley thought? This is the world in which she does, Ethan. And you can change all of that.”
The line goes flat.
“Who was that?” Riley calls over.
“Just something from work I guess. AT&T is even stronger than I expected.”
“Okay… well as strange as your inter-dimensional phone call was, it’s time to send you back.”
She straps a strange technological band around my arm and hands me a futuristic blue gun.
“Don’t worry, completely painless. Just in case.”
Her voice is somber; she’s hiding something but I don’t have the time to figure out what. I slide the gun into my pocket.
“Hang on, you’re not going with me?” I asked, worried.
“Can’t. I don’t belong in your time period. Now, they’ve busted out their scanners and I’ll light up like a Christmas tree.”
I chuckle nervously.
“Don’t worry, all you have to do is look out for a lost redhead on the train. Then flash your winning smile, wow her with your intellect, have a crazy night and bam: I exist.”
She pats me with a heavy arm.
“I’m glad I got to see you like this… dad. Before I… never mind. Time to go.”
And before I can react, she presses a big red button on my arm band.
I wake up on a creaky subway. I check my reflection in the windows. I don't look like a scraggly beggar but the dignified person I normally am. To the right, I no longer see Riley but an elderly woman sleeping on the seat. I look left to see Mr. John Smith the Liar and his clenched phone. I notice his violet eyes and blonde hair that was clearly dyed black. He looks really familiar but I just can't place my finger on it. I stare closer at his phone and I see a text he's writing with one hand: "I'm so, so sorry. I tried, but I couldn't do it. This has to happen." He presses send. I'm so focused on him and his familiar appearance that I don't catch a redhead bumping into me. She’s checking a map and is clearly lost.
“Hi, do you need some help?” I ask.
“Uh yeah, do you know where Propsect Avenue is?”
“It’s, well, actually right here.”
We arrive at Prospect Avenue station and get off together.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You’re not from here are you?”
“I’m visiting from Boston,” she replies.
“Would you like me to show you around the city? I’m Ethan,” extending my arm out to shake hers.
She’s incredulous. “Oh I see. You come over; help the lost damsel in distress find her destination, then you take me out for a few drinks, and get it on with me in your apartment later right? Yeah, nice pickup, but no.”
I try to save myself, “No honestly, I just wanted to show you around. You seem like an interesting person.” I hide my bracelet behind my leg.
“…Huh, okay.” She replies, sizing me up but giving me a seal of approval.
I take her to her hotel and we visit all the tourist locations. And we talk. We talk like there’s no tomorrow, and she’s everything I expected. Moira is smart, witty, philosophical, definitely easy on the eyes. We find an instant connection. They weren’t lying when they said soulmates. Our conversations somehow drift to work and after a few drinks she says, “It’s top secret. You can’t tell anyone.” I mime zipping shut my lips. “I work at MIT, and we’ve been doing research on time travel. We think it’s possible to alter events that happened in the past. It’s all theoretical right now, but one day maybe…”
I’m suddenly reminded by why I’m here. By the gun in my pocket. The phone call I receive. I nod, contemplatively. We continue to converse freely but I feel hollow – no, gutted. We talk about politics, and life, and nature, and our deepest fears. She’s unbelievably perfect. We reach Times Square, with thousands of people bustling around us. Where she won't be lost. We’re talking about children, and how annoying they are. How ironic. I slide out my gun and pull her into an embrace.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper.
I press the barrel up against her chest, my hand trembling. I pull the trigger. Hey eyes are frozen in shock as she falls onto my shoulder. I hear gasps and screams from people around me. I merely see blobs through my tear-strucken eyes. I continue to whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I hear cops yelling out commands. Guns cocking. I just hold her. “I’m so, so sorry.” Everything is spinning. The screaming gets louder and louder and everything becomes an inanely high-pitched blur.
I press the button on my arm. I can almost feel myself lurching forward in time.
I’m no longer in Times Square. I’m in a park. A clean one. In a slightly brighter New York. Not the one I’m used to, there's quite a few more skyscrapers everywhere, but it’s New York for sure. I see black suited men driving up in black cars approaching me. Why do spies always have to be in all black? A few of them are nodding, some of them are applauding. I have to go back though. This solution is just temporary. I stumble to my feet and seat myself down. What a strange sight in New York. A 21-year-old man approached by secret service agents silently crying and nodding in a bright, red, plastic stool.